Nashville: Days 15-24

Day 15

Since the sadistic yet borderline retarded bus thing obsessively demolished all possibility of rest, our arrival dawns on me through a foggy veil of semi-sleep. As we crawl out, all feeling twice as bad as we’re looking, we all wilt visibly under the muscular Tennessee heat. Shouldering the dreaded bags we head out onto the straight but seemingly bloody endless road to the Comfort Inn. The miraculous fact that we’ve actually made it has yet to result in specific happys, mostly due to the fact that I’m both ridiculously hot and ridiculously tired. For once, the incompetence of our daft cow of a driver works to our advantage as we arrive not all too far from check-in time and therefore skip the whole ‘see the city until the room is ready’ thing which none of us can be remotely arsed with. We all flop down on the reception couch and stare blankly at the newspapers and coffee opposite. We manage to put on a fair show of being real human beings for a short while, pawing clumsily at copies of USA Today and fumbling with paper cups of coffee, casually scalding ourselves as we attempt to pour a cup like normal people. Soon though, the room’s ready and on our way I note the pool. This is good. Inside we notice the two fairly comfortable beds, the iron, and the working shower and clean toilet. This is also good. I notice that this is not a hostel. This is particularly good. By this time it’s around 12:30 in the afternoon and, as one, we all flop onto our beds and lapse into deep, vegetative sleeps.

Waking up many hours later we try out the novelty of having a pool. As I’m the only one without anything approaching swimshorts I borrow Ross’s denim cutoffs, weighing up the pros of being able to use the pool against the con of looking just a little bit like a hillbilly. Ross’s competitive nature arises and records are set, namely 1 minute 35 seconds for me holding my breath. I fare less well in somersaults, flailing underwater like some demented zero gravity version of the Def Leppard drummer as I frantically pinch my nose while whirling around and feeling nauseous. Back at the room we collapse again, awaking at 11ish to realise that going for a meal isn’t exactly one of our options as this time. We settle for ordering pizzas instead, something that takes a hell of a lot more effort than we initially anticipated, owed in part to Mike’s Hull accent and the guy’s sheer natural flair for idiocy. The delivery guy, once he arrives, tries shamelessly to run off with a $30 tip from $50 in notes. Change? Nah. Because shoving pizzas at people and holding out your hand for the money really necessitates a 60% tip doesn’t it. Tit.

Day 16

Today we finally feel up to investigating Nashville proper, and head up what we soon learn is De-mon-bree-yun street, not ‘Demon-brehn’ as we thought it was called.
The first thing we face is the Country Music Hall of Fame. We were gonna visit it anyway, so figure what better time than now? We sign up for both the studio and the hall of fame tour whilst at the ticket booth we’re AGAIN mistaken for a band, although mistaken’s not exactly the word since me and Ross actually ARE, as we inevitably have to explain: ‘No. No they’re not in a band… no but WE are you see, yes. Yes HIM and I. WE are, yes. We’re not touring. No. We are tourists, yes. Yes we’re actually called Clarion, yes, no, no that’s CLARION, C-L-A-R… oh sod it yes we DO have an accent, how perceptive. England, yes, but no, not London no, there are actually other places apart from… Yorkshire? Hull? You’ve not heard of it? Oh fuck it, yes WE ALL LIVE IN FUCKING LONDON. ALROIT GAVNAH. He’s a cockney shoeshine, he’s related to the Beatles and I butter the Queen’s fucking toast every morning.’

Studio B is our first destination. It’s ok, although a fair bit shorter than any of us expected as we only see three rooms. I’m not what you’d call crazy about Elvis, so it’s mostly lost on me. On the plus side, it’s pleasant to see how shit recording was in days of yore and that. Also, the chance to hear yet another pre-recorded slice of Dolly Parton’s timeless, sickly schmaltz means I’ve heard it two more times than any self-respecting human being should ever have to. The hall of fame is, well… it’s good. As I’ve said to most who’ve asked since, there’re only so many banjos and sequinned shirts a person can look at before you zone out and just stop caring. The little ‘Keith Urban on tour’ bit was cool, although it’s taken straight from the DVD I’ve already seen. No live footage though, pah!

On the night we dare to head into the town to actually find Nashville, so to speak. The first few blocks are predictably unlit and equally uneventful (thank god), but my hunch that somewhere would lie the cultural core of the place is proven when we finally hit Broadway and recoil at the ridiculous array of lights. Walking along we see that it’s mostly comprised of rootin’ tootin’ BBQs and bars of some sort or another, each complete with their own country house band. On our enquiry, though, we find most to be full – it is Saturday after all – and walk down to the end, eventually choosing a slightly out of the way pizza place for tea.

Once suitably stuffed, we file back down the street to look for a bar. The trouble, though, is which to choose as we’re veritably spoilt for choice. That and the fact that they all look pretty much the same to us. Eventually we plump for one on the basis of the only slight variable: the band. So into Robert’s we dive. Bowering and Ross opt for the JD and coke ($5.50), I go for the crown and coke ($5.60) and Mike for the Bud light (priceless).
Being a Saturday night the place is pretty packed and I sorely regret bringing my bag, something that’s become almost instinctual from the hostel weeks. The band is certainly tight and, despite his ridiculously garish shirt, the Tele-toting guitarist certainly has his country licks down. After finishing drinks (a mere matter of seconds for the newly-christened Michael Gulp and a slow process like the tide going out for Old Man River Bowering) our collective spidey senses tell us it’s time to move on. As we walk past the next bar along, the guitarist within me and Bowering pricks its ears up at the country shredding within. We call back Ross and Mike who walk blithely past and demand entry into this shred-saturated craphole. It’s called the Bluegrass Inn and, somewhat deterred by the drink prices (JD and coke is $6 here), I opt for the good old bottle o’ Bud. As the beers start rolling in we look up and notice that Mike has been approached by a couple of girls on the pretence of some crap or other. However, much like a light sprinkling heralds an apocalyptic hurricane, we see the real motive behind their suspicious friendliness haul itself into view and slowly blot out the light. This towering blob of vileness could, I suppose, be loosely classified as human, yet it’s only from the particular arrangement of her frontal flab that you can tell her birth certificate probably (and I really stress that probably) says female. That is, if she wasn’t just vomited into existence in some random pit of Hell or fast-food restaurant. Fearing for my very life and presuming she had little in the way of a modus operandi beyond eating me, I failed (God knows how) to notice the sign on her outer scaffolding proclaiming ‘BUCK 4 A SUCK’. I didn’t really want to read too much into that on the basis that a) I might actually vomit on myself and b) I’d probably be irreversibly sexually traumatised from thereon in, but she spares us no such thought. Turns out she’s on a hen night, and upon this revelation the frilly mountain of lace and crap heaped upon her like some kind of Christmas steamboat starts to make sense. Sort of. I have to say though, the thought of any sane human paying to suck what passes for breasts (although surely only the existence of nipples would distinguish them from all the other plateaus of flab there) is just plain outrageous. So from this it’s fairly easy to guess what our reaction was. At first, oh yes, we laughed, how we laughed, then awkwardly tried to shift her attention the hell away from us. Mostly onto Mike. Her conclusion is, of course, that we’re gay (how else could we resist her wobbly charms?) which is something I enthusiastically encourage as a permanent solution to our shared problem. They come back later and, although we have fairly good conversation with her cronies, she storms back with a vengeance. Again, the gay card is played and we’re eventually home free. The singer from the first band (who didn’t seem to actually do anything beyond jump around like a tit and gob off) passes by with a collection pot thing and, because he reminds me vaguely of Sammy Hagar, I give him a dollar which he doesn’t even acknowledge. Showy twat. His stupid leopard skin cowboy hat makes him look like a Texan Bet Lynch. The next band has two Noodles-alikes and, although the guitarist doesn’t shred nearly as well as the previous Kyle Gass-alike, they’re definitely better. At the table across from us an actually quite hot girl continues to enthusiastically dry-hump the same empty-eyed, flip-flop wearing, crew-cutted average Joe she has for the last hour. He continues to dumbly stare and lazily paw her tits occasionally. What a retard.

Day 17

Today we actually try our best to get to breakfast despite the fact that we’re gradually drifting into increasingly home-like (i.e. – bloody lazy) routines. It’s pretty good, although the absence of MEAT is somewhat disappointing As usual, my eyes are bigger than my belly and load up on absolutely EVERYTHING including waffles, bagels, cereal, coffee, juice and a doughnut. Realising I clearly can’t eat it all I save it for later, something I relish later on as I stuff my fat little face by the pool. The day is largely spent in this fashion and, again, some badass records are set. Today must be my athletic nadir since I manage to hold my breath underwater for 2 minutes 51 seconds, nearly twice my last 1min 35secs effort when trying to beat Ross’s 1 min 45 seconds. The whole thing’s quite a novelty and after realising that Nashville is essentially a street, we have no qualms about relaxing some more by the pool. The heat is still ridiculous though.

For tea we decide we may as well stop delaying the inevitable and just go to bloody McDonald’s already. Despite quite possibly having been more times in the last week than the last decade, I’ve yet to get the ordering procedure right. From the evidence that presents itself at the counter, it would appear McD’s have now started recruiting selectively from the local ghetto special schools. From her bleached, curly hair and vacant, rubbery face I get the feeling the woman’s IQ doesn’t far exceed her shoe size. Despite struggling with the large milkshake last time, I ask for a double quarter pounder with milkshake, stressing the separateness since last time my request for a large milkshake was misconstrued as a request for a large fucking EVERYTHING as well. After I receive the meal I can’t help but notice the extra cup. Oh dear. Last and – well fucking done Einstein – she’s given me the SUPER GIANT MEGA BASTARD SHAKE in addition to a regular drink. Like I really need it along with that massive bastard. Christ I’m not Mike. Oh, and she’s given me one burger in my double. I’m officially enraged. I go back to replace it and could swear the rat-faced Mexican guy spits in it. I hate McDonalds.

Day 18

Today we participate largely in more-of-the-same poolery, although we eventually trudge down to Broadway since Bowering needs a t-shirt, his having been stolen along with his iPod in DC. Additionally, the guitar shop we saw previously requires some serious axe-pervage. Upon closer inspection, Broadway reveals a plethora of Brid-like tat shops, brimming with Nashville souvenir shite. The guitar shop, although understandably somewhat countrified, has plenty of cool shit, notably some pretty damn expensive vintage geetars. Highlight is the irritating, curly-haired, overweight guitar geek rhapsodising about his equipment to the clearly not interested staff. Strumming a ridiculously expensive $3,000 odd Telecaster as if he were doing it a favour, he carries on babbling mindlessly about how he’s ‘a player not a collector’ so he doesn’t mind changing his pickups. Like we care dickhead, try someone who cares. Put the fucking guitar down already and shut the hell up.

Back at the hotel, we opt for the takeaway option again, this time with me as official order translator, allowing me to practice my very best ‘12 inch pepper-fucking-roni’ American accent on them as apparently they can’t understand a frigging word of our oh-so-‘European’ Hull accents.

Day 19

Today we embark upon the Jack Daniel’s tour. We rush through the breakfast and head to the lounge to wait for the bus. Eventually the old dude tour guide bursts in with a ‘Bowering party for the Jack Daniel’s tour get DRUUUNK?’ After a jaunty little ride on the small bus to the meeting place we eventually transfer to the main bus and embark for Lynchburg. The journey’s about an hour and a half (child’s play compared to our previous epic bastard knee crushers) and me and Mike do our best to ignore the relentlessly loud and seemingly endless Tootsies documentary on the mini-TVs.

When we arrive we mill around the visitor’s bit, posing for a brief photo with Jack himself (turns out he’s quite the short arse). Eventually our group is called and, entering the room late from dithering in the toilet I really nail the dynamic entrance. I’m sure the hot girl from our coach is impressed. Our guide is suitably small and wrinkled and totters into sight like a wee bleached raisin in tourist/grandparent wear of t-shirt, jeans and tiny white trainers. After the short introductory film – full of sweeping shots of contented looking (i.e. – pissed) blokes in dungarees and the good ol’ gravely voiced narrator who just can’t help himself by spouting out all the possible marketing-friendly bullshit synonyms for old (‘authentic’, ‘GENUINE’, ‘TRIED AND TESTED’, ‘CLASSIC’, ‘GENUINE’) we’re led outside into the pleasantly gardenish grounds whilst Betty happily babbles on about how great Jack Daniel’s was, although her knowledge stops short of actually knowing what insects are in the trees, or what actually exists in the immediate area beyond Jack Daniel’s and loads of bloody whisky. Okay, BOURBON, let’s not be pedantic. The scenery is suitably rustic: a shed here, some old barrels there, it’s all as good ol’ time as old Betty herself.

There’s plenty of whisky fumes around to smell (or temporarily disable my ability to) and me and Mike volunteer for a mystery task which turns out to be to fan the barrel of malt or rye or whatever it is into the faces of those sadistic enough to take a whiff. As soon as he realises it involves wafting foul stenches into people’s faces, Mike takes to it like it’s second nature.

When it becomes group knowledge that, yes, we’re BRITISH, a wheedling old southern dude hobbles up to ask in a barely comprehensible drawl if we know anyone called Russell cause, you know, they have relatives by that name there. We blink and look blankly at each other in shared amazement. I just didn’t have the heart to break it to him that England is a country, not a fucking cul-de-sac.
As we eventually reach the end we arrive in the gift shop/refreshments bit. A tray of lemonades is laid out for each of us in the party and, inevitably, Mike takes two. Ross and Bowering purchase a bottle each of the special edition gold medal Jack ($40) and I go against it on the basis that I’m not that mad on JD anyway.

On the drive back me and Mike continue to eye the hot girl who takes the seat next us despite my unhappy deduction that she’s probably 16 at the oldest. The coach stops for some reason or other at a liquor store, despite the fact we’ve just been to a WHISKY FACTORY. Not to complain however, me and Mike disembark and he purchases some green label JD (JD Light basically) and I score me some CROWN ROYAL BABY! and hide it in its brown paper bag to makes sure I’m not thrown off the bus for being a JD turncoat. On getting back on the bus we’re presented with the unexpected but glorious sight of hot girl and what I presume is her sister talking to Ross and Bowering. We soon get our big gobs into the conversation and engage hot girl in SEXY CONVERSATION. Okay, conversation. She moves into the seats in front of us and it turns out her name is Becky, she’s 20 (pleasant surprise) and in the 2nd year of a PR degree in her native Cleveland, Ohio. Like just about everyone who meets us she thinks we are a band and is absolutely fascinated with every facet of our European beings. Unfortunately, like most Americans she inexplicably manages to use the term ‘Europe’ as some kind of catch-all blanket term for the gazillion different countries and customs within it. Largely, however, I don’t rightly care since she’s really hot and actually genuinely interested as well. I had a feeling her sister knew I was ignoring her for the most part (well, she was married), and seems to give Becky cues to ask me things like some kind of verbal dig in the ribs like when she asks the inevitable myspace/facebook question. For some unexplainable reason, all Americans seem to use facebook exclusively. Anyway I got hers. Time to sign up to facebook.

Day 20

Today is again a day principally pool-dominated and, since by now we’ve broken into jumping and doing somersaults territory, Mike films me doing an infamous seat drop and does 3 whole takes of a somersault, the second of which I kill my back so badly it feels like tender bacon only to be rewarded with Mike chuckling ‘oh… it didn’t record after all!’ Painful. By now some kind of complex poolside etiquette has resulted: me and Bowering do the sensible thing and avoid the blistering midday heat whilst Ross seems entirely unfussed at the prospect of frying under the concentrated death rays of the Nashville sun. Mike opts for the in-between option, impulsively hurling himself and then crawling back out after flopping around for a minute or so and squeezing his t-shirt on while he’s still soaking. Due to the novelty of not having to share a room with complete strangers, the levels of ridiculousness, in-jokes, and homoeroticism obviously skyrocket. Encouraged as usual by the puppet master Ross, Mike begins a gruelling campaign of baring his hairy arse at every given opportunity. It doesn’t actually bother me inasmuch as seeing a dead pigeon doesn’t bother me, but my feigned shock is gleefully lapped up as genuine arse-phobia, and he proceeds to pull out his pale, wobbly buns whenever possible. ‘Oh look, he’s proud of it!’ squeals the puppet master. Good lord.

Day 21

Today is somewhat similar. Me, Mike and Ross descend to breakfast, I take a bagel and a doughnut back up, Ross a bunch of bananas and Mike nothing so that he has to pump more quarters into the vending machine later. The heat is insane, and we once more drag out the day in pure, unabashed laziness, beginning with an especially extended lie-in. Thing is, this now appears to clash with the cleaner’s rota, so the scene is set for a daily clash of interests, beginning with the initial 11 o clock knock, which after a few days becomes almost a formality by both parties, more a first round bell than anything else, just so we know that she’s here, and yeah, she means business. The first few days we attempt sending her away for a short period, which of course never works because I’m always getting ready and just end up being faced with an unsolvable problem that speaks no English beyond ‘clean?’ or ‘no clean?’ whilst I’m wearing my boxers. The first occasion finds me frantically searching for my wallet while she cleans the room and I glare at her in, I admit, a fairly accusatory way. Upon finding the bloody thing behind my bed and looking hugely relieved, she manages to tell from my body language that I suspected her. ‘Me no touch things, me clean!’ So, yep, I accuse her of stealing. Great start to the occupant/cleaner relationship there. This time, however, we dig our heels in and just plain lock the bloody door, pretending not to hear the angry raps and occasional squawks of ‘Clean! Clean!’ every hour or so.

Since we’ve settled in fairly well by now we dare to actually utilise the fridge and get some brewskies in. Bowering manages to convince Mike to not go for the Bud Lite again, coercing him into taking that big step onto Bud ice. He still drinks his share of 6 before me and Ross have finished our 2nd though. And lo, Michael Glug is born….

Day 22

After weathering the initial attempts of the cleaner to besiege our fortress, Mike and I venture out and our first sight upon exiting the room is none other than the scrunched up and clearly irritated face of the cleaner. Mike appears to weigh up the situation for a moment before bellowing ‘CLEAN!’ in his best Indian comedy accent about 2 feet away from her into her face, and then runs off laughing. One small step for cleaner relations again there.

We actually dare to sit up and stride into the unknown in the searing heat out of necessity today. Again we peruse the numerous tat shops down Broadway, but travel beyond the known boundaries in search of you know, an actual SHOP that sells anything beyond novelty mugs or googly-eyed pencil toppers. The 2 dollar shop yields the pad I write on now, and Ross seizes the opportunity to descend upon the cereal and milk supplies like some breakfast-obsessed vulture. The Walgreen’s yields the shocking but beautiful revelation of a ball for ONE CENT. ONE FUCKING CENT. There’s no way that could possibly be cheaper unless they charged us in Turkish Lira or actually paid us to take it. It’s beyond comprehension in its cheapness, but I guess it’s one of those things you just accept and are grateful for. Suitably tooled up for Memphis, we take to the pool once we’re back. Me and Mike re-attempt some trick jumps with no regard for the others in the pool whatsoever. At the table by the pool, one of the jock o’clock collective has decided to inflict his singer/songwriter ‘skills’ upon all present in combination with the skinny guy with the bandana and his stupidly unkempt beard. I notice they’re necking a sizeable amount of beers, which appears to serve both to – ironically – enhance his naturally imbued suckiness and his perception of how much he doesn’t suck. He goes through the songs like a raving madman, strumming the out of tune acoustic like he’s grating cheese, yowling like a raped cat while trying his best to pull of the whole ‘grief wracked country star’s shtick.

Our conquest of the pool proceeds until we achieve total domination by deterring all would-be pool-goers through our over-enthusiastic splashing and gobbing off. We begin with volleyball, which is hampered ever so slightly by the fact that the dividing line of the pool is horizontal, so one team gets to stand and defend a tiny area with the pool calmly lapping around their ankles whilst the others have to tread 7-9 feet of water and defend a small ocean. Needless to say, this often contributes a not unsizeable strategic advantage. We then cycle through an improvised game of horse, using the word ‘glug’ (cardozo was found to be too long) instead and then moving to heads and volleys after I happened to mention how much I always hated having to play it.

Day 23

This morning sees us again fortifying the barricades against the incessant knocks of ‘CLEAN??’ by locking the door and hiding under the covers like frightened children. Being our last day, the focus is mainly on pool and packing. Dinner consists of leftovers from breakfast (well, salvaged extras) and the remainder of my 64 OUNCE root beer which I got for a paltry 99 cents. Beautiful. For the entire Nashville stay I struggled to comprehend On the Run’s ‘any fountain soda for 99c’ policy, but again, it’s one of those things you just have to put down to divine benefaction. As usual Mike gulped as much as he could on the walk home and then threw the rest into a hedge as soon as he stopped being thirsty. How or why he did this I have no idea, since the cup itself is not so much a cup as a section of industrial piping that felt like you were carrying around a toilet bowl with a straw in it, but Mike is a man of the present. This we know. This is why now, 2 days on, I do the responsible thing and remind Mike that if he hadn’t thrown his into a hedge after three gulps he’d still have some left now. So no, he can’t have any of mine. He’ll thank me when he’s older.

Back in the bedroom, the international situation has cooled somewhat after my secession from the supposedly democratic republic of the right bed. This is largely due to Ross’ JFK-like refusal to affiliate himself with my actions after the botched mission of diplomacy I got roped into. After such damning evidence of the cruel dictatorship of Ross behind his democratic façade, I declare independence as a city-state and join the left bed in a retaliatory strike against the scheming, tight-panted despot. Upon a later last-ditch scheme of stealing the covers and feigning ignorance of it (a staple Ross ‘classic’) I rolled him neatly into the yawning abyss between the bed and the wall, trapping him perfectly. My earlier attempt at this, glorious in the fact that Ross was, in his own words, completely helpless, was foiled only by my merciful nature, much like Prime facing Megatron in Transformers: The Movie (1986). So I decided against the killing blow of leaving him there all night with only the periodic intrusions of Mike’s arse in his face as company, something I siincerely regret upon coming back from breakfast and being unable to sleep due to his insistence of keeping some plasticine, gaudy kids TV shit on at maximum volume. Clearly he had no intention of watching it as he spent the entire time face down in his pillow clutching the remote and giggling like an idiot while initiating the fail-safe method of feigning innocence in an absurd situation every time I demanded to know what the fuck he thought he was ding. Eventually it took a combined force of me and Mike to wrest back control of the remote and throw the batteries off the balcony. I think Mike regrets this somewhat when Ross decides to kneel on his chest and shove the flashing jelly ball repeatedly in to his face. The second occasion of Ross’ entrapment I savour more as a result, and satisfy myself by covering him in shaving foam before he gets out.

Later, after the international situation gives way to a less divisive republic of individual states, Ross resorts to the new tactic of putting everyone’s belongings in his ridiculously tight pants then jumping around in shock and surprise when anyone happens to object to this. Upon ‘processing’ my America book, my swiftly-delivered cock punch to the cuboid bulge in his pants is met with horror at my overreaction as if I’m some lone killer gone mad. Ross leaps away, completely unable to understand what might be annoying me at all. I have to say, though, it’s pretty satisfying since the perverted act itself pretty much warrants a punch in the balls each and every time. Among the items processed are: my exercise book, my watch, my wallet, Mike’s hat, Mike’s passport, Mike’s watch and Mike’s wallet. Needless to say, it’s not the most popular of Ross’s plethora of japes.

Day 24

This morning requires the one thing we’re unused to in Nashville (well, apart from patient cleaners, hot, buxom women throwing themselves at us and, well, quite a lot of things really): GETTING UP EARLY. Packing everything up for the 10am Greyhound feels almost like going home from a nice little family holiday abroad, although the illusion is shattered somewhat as we drag the cow-sized BIG BAGS in the unrelenting heat down the baking expanse of Demonbreun street. As we put our bags down in the queue at the station and I look around, I realise how much I really hate Greyhound stations. My overall despisal of the company itself, the feckless drivers and the grimacing ticket-trolls has already been firmly established, but the station itself always does well to earnestly drag you down with its boxy shitholeness, crap shops and the throngs of absolute retards that inhabit it. After a good spell in a city, it never fails to shatter your fond memories by forcing you to stand in line for a late bus you might not even be able to board along with a horde of lip-smacking, stubby-fingered pigfucks and their squealing, fat offspring. Instead of wasting time on initiatives to clean up the city, Nashville should probably consider just nuking the bus station instead. It’d no doubt add a little prestige to the city and clean up the gene pool no end.

Anyhow, we wait over an hour for the bus to come (laughing in the meantime at the confused old Chinese cowboy dude whose luggage is denounced as too heavy by the ticket troll, which he just fails entirely to comprehend) and push forward, attempting to get past the vulture-like old bastards who hover near the entrance in hopes of cutting in on the credibility of their ‘friendly old folk’ front.

The ride itself is fairly short compared to the others (and those to come) clocking in at about 4 hours and, as we disembark, I marvel at the staff’s ingenious method of setting down our bags, going apeshit if anyone even thinks about going near them, then moving them about 2 yards on a trolley and being perfectly happy for everyone to descend upon it like crack-addled hyenas. A soon as we have all our luggage together we zoom off, me and Ross in the lead, and speed straight through the Greyhound station (a strategy I heartily endorse) and into a waiting taxi outside. Our destination is actually West Memphis (which, apparently, is in Arkansas unlike Memphis proper, which is in Tennessee) thanks to the Elvis-crazed loons that descend upon Memphis this week. It really is just our luck. The Super 8 Motel, our prestigious residence, isn’t quite as good as the Comfort Inn but is still good in that it’s not a hostel, therefore japes galore (groan).